


Common Sense vs Imagination

by Crowgirl



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Flirting, Homophobic Language, M/M, Not Beta Read, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-09 01:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17397815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: Q takes the hit as he’s sure he’s meant to: full on the solar plexus and in silence.





	Common Sense vs Imagination

Bond misses the buckle for the third time, M sighs, and Q frowns.

‘Are you feeling quite yourself, 007?’ M asks tartly.

Bond looks up, shaking his hands from the wrists as if to get the blood flowing in his fingers. ‘Just wonderful. Sir.’

Q can feel himself scowling harder. ‘Look, perhaps this isn’t quite--’

‘It’ll do the job, won’t it?’ M interrupts him.

‘Yes, but--’

‘Then Bond will just have to get over his case of butterfingers.’ M arches an eyebrow at Bond who makes no answer but eyes the tangle in front of him. In theory, it’s quite simple: Bond has to leave a data collection device in a server. It’s nothing he hasn’t done a dozen times before and usually Q could just hand him something as low-tech as a USB drive from the corner shop and be done with it. But in this case there have been complications and difficulties and buggeries of every kind and Q’s had to come up with something rather more complex because now Bond has to go in when there are very likely to be other people there. In the end, it will still basically be Bond leaving a USB drive in a port but in order to _get_ the USB drive _to_ the port, he’s going to have to make use of a few tricks: thus, the rig on the desk before them which is designed to ride invisibly under the sleeves of Bond’s jacket and carry the tricks. In order to get at them, though, Bond needs to release a buckle. 

Q hadn’t thought much about it when putting it together -- given his druthers, he would have preferred to make it a pull cord, but that would have taken at least an extra day. Now he’s thinking he should have pushed the issue.

Bond succeeds on his fourth try but only with a loud click and the buckle flying apart in a way that would spell disaster for a tailored suit jacket. 

M actually rolls his eyes. ‘For heaven’s sake, Bond--!’

Bond curses quietly and wrings out his right hand. From his position on the other side of the table, Q can see the swollen joints on his first two fingers and thumb that are giving him the trouble. How he got them, Q has no idea but he can guess. He can also see that Bond has the faded remains of a bad black eye and is almost grey with fatigue. He watches Bond fumble for a moment, then he can’t stand it any more. ‘Sir, I really think--’

‘As touching as your concern _is,_ Quartermaster,’ M cuts him off, voice colder than the March rain against the windowpanes. ‘Bond is not one of your little friends. Lets hope he’s a bit tougher than your poncey lot, yes?’

Q takes the hit as he’s sure he’s meant to: full on the solar plexus and in silence. 

‘Isn’t it lucky,’ Bond says, giving his fingers a last shake, ‘that Q isn’t petty or vindictive.’ The buckle slips together and apart once, twice, three times. Bond snaps it apart one last time and lays down the halves on the table and looks up at M. ‘Sir.’ 

Q isn’t sure either man knows he’s in the room any more. M has drawn himself up into the kind of frozen outrage that generally makes cabinet ministers start to yammer and Bond is staring him down with an expression Q has only seen on him in security camera footage before things start exploding. 

‘I’ll -- just --’ Q scrabbles the straps together as fast as he can. ‘I’ll just see if I can make this a bit quieter -- I’m pretty sure I can find a toggle that would be easier on your hands, Bond--’ 

Neither man is listening to him, he’s absolutely sure of it, and he ducks out of the door and flattens himself to the wall beside it for a moment out of sheer relief. 

It isn’t his fault that both their voices carry clearly.

* * *

‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ M demands.

‘My job. As you’ve spent the afternoon pointing out, I’ve made a bit of a dog’s dinner of it of late.’

‘And you propose to pursue that course by calling me -- what was it again?’

‘Petty and vindictive. Be glad I stopped there.’

‘What the _hell--_ Just because you got away with this sort of nonsense with the old M--’

‘The old M didn’t use information against her own people.’ There’s a loud _crack!_ as if something has been thrown down or thrown _at_ and Q winces away from the door. 

‘I have never--’

‘You’ve had it out for that boy since day one and don’t you dare pretend otherwise. He’s the best damned quartermaster we’ve had in here in ten years and you’re going to lose him. That’s if he’s got any sense.’ There’s another _crack!_ Q guesses it’s the sound of a chair violently meeting a table; he’s seen James do something similar before and it can’t be M because from the sound of his voice, he hasn’t budged.

‘Just because you’ve got a--’

‘No.’ There’s a moment of silence and when Bond speaks again, it’s low and intense and Q knows he’s only hearing it because he’s only a few inches away. Bond must be damn near standing on M’s toes. ‘Don’t you fucking dare, Gareth.’

_Gareth?_ Q mouths to himself. Then there’s the sound of movement towards the door and Q ducks away down the hall. 

* * *

He spends the next few hours making himself concentrate on the straps. He doesn’t have time to make the changeover to a pull cord but he does manage to substitute a snap for the buckle and to change one gadget for another that can be used blind so Bond doesn’t even have to bother getting it out of his sleeve. All he has to do is nudge it against something -- leaning casually against a wall will do.

The workshop empties out around him and he’s pondering whether or not the snap could be made larger -- Bond’s fingers looked like they’d been caught in a hinge -- when the door opens.

Q looks up and feels himself flush. ‘Ah. Oh.’

‘You were expecting someone else?’ Bond asks, holding the door open behind himself.

‘No, er -- no, not at all, I --’ Q glances at the clock. ‘I didn’t realise what time it was.’

‘Time for me to get the glad rags on.’ Bond lets the door shut. ‘Are they ready?’

‘As they’ll ever be.’ Q slips off his stool. 

‘Jacket or shirt?’ 

‘Just the jacket.’ 

Bond slips off the black jacket and drapes it over the steel-topped workshop table. He comes around to stand beside Q. ‘You’ve been fiddling with it.’

‘Yes, well.’ Q clears his throat and wonders if he’s always noticed Bond’s cologne or whether it’s something new for tonight. ‘It needed some improvement.’

Bond picks the contraption up and rubs his thumb over the snap. ‘This is new.’

‘Ah. Yes.’ Q clears his throat again and notices that a good half of Bond’s thumbnail had been torn away when whatever happened to his fingers happened. Perhaps the snap hadn’t been a good idea after all. ‘I thought it might be a bit easier.’

Bond tests the catch a couple of times and nods. ‘It is. Thank you.’ He shrugs the webbing on and starts adjusting it over his shoulders.

‘Here -- let me --’ Q pulls the rig even over Bond’s shoulders, trying not to let his fingers brush against Bond’s shirt. It’s only crisp cotton, only a well-tailored black suit, he keeps telling himself, absolutely no reason for him to get fumble-fingered. ‘I -- wanted to say thank you.’

‘For what?’ Bond shrugs and wriggles his left shoulder. ‘It’s a little tight.’

‘Damn -- hang on -- lift your arm --’ Q ducks under Bond’s lifted arm and tugs on his shirt sleeve, pulling a fold of cloth out from under the webbing. ‘Is that better?’

Bond tests his shoulder again and nods. ‘Yes. What were you saying?’

‘Oh, I -- wanted to say thank you.’ Q steps back and watches Bond slip into his jacket. Bond gives him a quizzical look and Q feels his face burn again. ‘For this afternoon.’

‘Oh, that.’ Bond seems amused. 

‘I didn’t know you and M--’ Q bites his lips together too late. 

The amusement fades out of Bond’s eyes. ‘Ah. You heard that, did you.’ 

‘I didn’t mean to.’

Bond studies him for a minute, his face carefully expressionless. ‘No -- no, I suppose you didn’t. That’s what you get for being in a building full of spies, you know; you become one whether you want to or not. It was a long time ago.’ 

‘I guessed.’

‘It’s -- not easy,’ Bond goes on rather as if Q hadn’t spoken. ‘Being with someone who can’t talk about his day job. Most of us can’t manage it, so we end up --’ He shrugs and the corners of his mouth turn down bitterly. ‘Well, we end up fucking each other. Which is a terrible idea. We’re mostly not very nice people.’ 

‘I wouldn’t have thought,’ Q says carefully, ‘that you and M had a lot in common.’

Bond barks a laugh. ‘We were randy. That’s enough.’ 

Q nods and there’s a moment of painfully stiff silence. ‘Well. Anyway. Regardless of -- that. Thank you. I -- can’t exactly -- I’m not in a position to --’ Q waves a hand and tries to think of a way to explain his silence that doesn’t make him sound like a complete coward. Had it been one of his own people, he’d’ve said something without a second thought. 

‘M’s a sod. Always was. Needs a good kicking now and again to keep him in line.’

‘But you fucked him anyway.’ Q actually _bites_ his tongue this time, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, but Bond doesn’t freeze up again. Instead, he tilts his head, looking at Q as though Q had just said something interesting for the first time. 

‘Well.’ Bond pauses, buttons his jacket, checks the fit, and smiles at Q. It’s not quite the devastating smile -- the one he saves for seductions of international importance -- but Q likes this one rather better: it doesn’t look so polished and, quite frankly, having it directed at him is having an unfortunate effect on his blood pressure. ‘He was very pretty.’

‘Oh.’ Q’s voice damn near squeaks and he pauses to clear his throat again. ‘Was he.’

Bond nods thoughtfully, letting his hand slide along the top of the table as he advances slowly on Q. ‘Very. All blue eyes and pale skin and dark hair. Lovely voice. He could read you a British Rail timetable and it would sound like erotic poetry.’

‘So a bit like you, then,’ Q says, hearing his pulse pound in his ears as he does so. 

Bond blinks, then looks so simply _pleased_ that Q realises for the first time that he is in very deep trouble indeed because Bond should look like that more often and he’s already trying to think of another way to get him to do so. ‘I don’t think anyone’s ever mentioned my voice before.’

‘Lacking in imagination, then.’

‘Which you have in spades, I think we’ve established.’ Bond lets his fingers drift a last inch and trace over the back of Q’s hand on the table. 

Q swallows. ‘A few of my schoolmasters were very clear about it. Somewhat deficient in common sense, though, they always said.’

‘Oh, who needs common sense,’ Bond murmurs, stepping in close enough that Q can feel the brush of his jacket lapel against his own cardigan. ‘There’s too much of it about. All over the place. Getting in the way.’ 

Q can feel himself leaning forward, he’s already thinking about what Bond’s mouth might taste like--

‘Damn.’ Bond’s hand tightens over his on the table and Q realises Bond is looking over his shoulder at the clock. ‘I can’t be late.’ He looks back at Q and a slightly withdrawn look comes back into his eyes. ‘We can forget this happened if you like.’ 

‘Christ, no,’ Q says before he can stop himself and worry about sounding desperate. 

‘You -- could come with me.’

Q blinks. ‘Are -- are you asking me to engage in international data piracy on a first date?’ 

Bond smiles. This time, it’s sly, conspiratorial, turning the whole thing into a joke between the two of them. ‘Unless you think you wouldn’t enjoy it.’ 

‘I haven’t got the fancy dress.’

‘You can wait in the car. It won’t take that long.’

Q shakes his head. ‘I’ve got a better idea. You go and be piratical --’ He leans forward so his cheek barely brushes Bond’s. ‘--and I’ll wait for you back at mine.’ 


End file.
